Gypsy Boy
by akaiiko
Summary: It's okay, Mark believes in fairytales. -Richard/Mark slash; one shot; high T; spoilers for Ep. 4-


**Notes:** This would be the first slash/yaoi/BL in the Legend of the Seeker fandom. I feel sorta proud. o.O Haha. Anyways, I am aware reviews for this will mostly likely be slim (considering most fans are pretty taken with Richard/Kahlan...) but if you read it and have any sort of opinion, PLEASE review. Reviews = luv.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything other than the plot and any unrecognizable characters. :)

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**Gypsy Boy**

Kylia of the wide brown eyes and the golden hair, Kylia of the soft looks and the gentle smiles, Kylia of the beauty and the sweetness. Mark does not rhapsodize like that, because he is only six and she only eight. For him, she Kylia of the mud wars and the skinned knees, Kylia of the mischievous eyes and the wrinkling nose, Kylia of the bravery and the stupidity.

Which is why is surprises him when, right in the middle of making yet another mud pie (for what else is there to do in the middle of spring after a fierce thunderstorm?), she asks: "Do you believe in love?"

Mark scoffs and throws a handful of mud at her. The sickening splat it makes against her moss green dress makes them both giggle.

Soon they are laughing and tussling and throwing mud indiscriminately. (She _is_ Kylia of the mud wars, after all.)

* * *

Darkness falls uneasily in Brennidon, as it always has (for as long as Mark can remember). His mother seems unbothered, as she always has. Mark cannot find it in himself to be unbothered, or even willfully oblivious.

Maybe it is paranoia. Maybe it is childish fear. Maybe it is the taunts of the older children about his long dead brother. (Have they forgotten their own dead siblings? Maybe.) Maybe it is a combination. Maybe Mark is just skittish.

His mother notices it, whatever the cause. She sits by his bedside with kind eyes the color of rich mud, a caring smile in place. "Whatever is wrong, Mark?"

Mark juts his jaw out. "Nothin'."

Both her eyebrows raise in disbelief. Then, very gently, she reaches out to tuck his hair behind his one ear. "Do you want a story?"

The jaw juts out further. "Too old. Brother wouldn't want stories."

A sad frown that Mark doesn't see twists her lips. She understands. He is nine, he has learned. "Would you mind listening for me? I'm need to keep myself awake while I clean. It's either a story or singing." That is a lie, but Mark winces at the thought of her singing anyway.

"What's the story about?"

She contemplates. Then stands and makes a show of bustling about picking up. "About a girl locked in a tower and how the Seeker freed her."

There is contemplation of Mark's face. "Is it a kissing story?"

"Yes," she was forced to admit. "But there is adventure and danger as well."

He bites his lip, then nods. "Okay. But I might fall asleep."

They both know that is a lie. Mark is a believer and a dreamer, he lives on the stuff of fairytales whether he will admit it or not.

She smiles graciously anyway. "Once upon a time there was a girl named Brenna, and she was a gypsy. She was as ethereal as the day was long, with hair the color of flame and eyes like the most beautiful topazes. Enrapturing she was, lithe and sweet and capable of stopping a man in his tracks with a single look."

Mark rolls his eyes even as he tucks himself further into bed.

"Well, obviously such beauty could not long go unnoticed. Soon the king, a vile and greedy man, heard rumors of her exquisite looks. He would accept nothing other than to have her brought to his castle and made his wife.

"As he was king, his will was law, especially in those dark times. For it was indeed a dark time, as the land was ruled by a growing and nameless evil. Such a dark time, that a Seeker had been born simply to keep the world from destruction!

"Yet the king was not concerned with the world. He merely wanted Brenna, for he was as stupid as he was vile and greedy. She was, according to his will, brought to the castle and presented with three choices. She could marry him then and there, she could refuse to marry him ever and be beheaded…or she could choose to wait for six years, locked in an unreachable tower, before marrying him."

Mark holds in a comment about the king being more than stupid if he would offer such a third choice. The story continues, Brenna of course choosing her third option, then being freed by the Seeker after he face many trials. They fell madly, passionately in love, and with the help of the Wizard and the Confessor, brought the evil king to justice.

Not that Mark hears any of that, seeing as he fell asleep sometime in the middle of the Seeker's fourth task.

A fond smile graces Brigid's lips as she watches her young son. "Would that you could find love one day, little one," she finds herself whispering. A chill wind blows at her wish, though Brigid doesn't know it. Instead, she finds a shiver running up her spine.

Shiver of foreboding, shiver of fear, shiver of delight? She can't pinpoint it, and after a moment dismisses it as easily as she does the uneasiness of the Brennidon night.

* * *

"I'm scared," he whispers, brown eyes staring down. Eyes near identical to his gaze back from an older face. It is older, Mark knows, though he can't make out features. He never can.

It's a tower this time. And Mark knows that it's a dream. It's always a dream. He always wakes up to unhappiness and tears. In this moment though, he let's go.

"What if you don't catch me?"

"I'm the Seeker, I'd never let you get hurt."

"But what if you do?"

The voice lowers. "Then I would spend every waking moment tending to you, for as long as you should desire."

Selfishness makes Mark smile. "What of the fate of the world? I am not so important―"

"You are more important than the world to me. More important than anything. I would do anything, _everything_, for you."

Mark bites his lip and believes. The air whistles past, the impact he braces himself unconsciously for never comes. Warm arms, strong arms, catch him as easily as a normal man would catch a sack of flour. "Hello, Mark," the Seeker says warmly.

The younger man smiles sweetly, wraps his arms around the other's neck. They must look ridiculous, two teenagers in the middle of a forest holding each other like newlyweds. Mark cannot bring himself to care. He uses one hand to pull the other's face toward him.

Kissing in sun dappled forests is a truly lovely idea, but it does not surprise Mark in the morning when he wakes with tear stained cheeks.

* * *

Gentle (manipulative) brown eyes stare down at him. There is not love there, but there is some sort of adoration that could make up for it. If Mark was the type to be swayed by false promises and gentle brown eyes. Which he isn't, pity.

He bites his lower lip, worrying it even as his own brown eyes scan the straw-strewn dirt for something undefinable.

"You don't love me," Kylia says. "I know that. I…I never expected love, really."

For Kylia is no longer Kylia of the mischievous smile and the wrinkling nose, nor is she Kylia of the wide brown eyes and the golden hair. Now she is Kylia of the blotchy face and the frightened movements..

"I am only thirteen," he tells her. It is a fact, a simple and unadorned fact. It is what breaks her.

The wails that she releases would have put spirits to shame.

"I am only thirteen. I know no trade, I make little money. That is likely all I shall ever amount to, Kylia."

"But you are close to the Patrol." Her wails are escalating, become near indecipherable. "One day you will be part of them, and me and you will be taken care of."

"One day, maybe." He closes his eyes, sighs, opens them again. "Kylia, I am only thirteen."

"You could save me!"

"I don't _want_ to anymore."

She lets out a scream of utter rage and swings her palm. It connects to a cheek with an audible smack. Mark says nothing, merely watches her with sad brown eyes.

Biting her own lip now, Kylia turns jerkily to storm away. Mark is left standing in front of the door into the house, unsure if he made the right decision at all.

"Goodbye, Kylia," he whispers. The front door shuts behind him.

* * *

"Stupid whore, getting yourself in this state!"

"I didn't mean to. Please, believe me."

There is rumbling, angry and cruel. "It our agreement, _darling_, that you would service the Patrol in exchange for your housing. How shall you fuck us when you are so pregnant you cannot even stand? And once the baby is born?"

"I…I could erase it," she said.

There was a murmur. Mark presses himself further into the shadows as her option is discussed. It is eventually decided that is the course of action. He is scared for the child, though he has never met it. He is scared for Kylia, who is driven to desperation because of fear. He is simply scared, and in the back of his mind he falls into warm arms and promises of forever.

* * *

He is blindfolded and gagged. The scent of drunken men, the touch of sword callused hands in places he does not want them. Suffocation seems likely in that moment. Then there is nothing but pain, radiating from his ass all the way up his spine. He screams into the gag, praying that the pain will allow him to black out. It doesn't.

It's rape. Raperaperaperape…Mark screams again as the man comes inside him. It burns terribly and now Mark is crying almost hysterically. Another man, more pain.

Cryscreambegpleadrapehurtcrybegraperaperape...

* * *

His mother, though Mark will never admit it, is daft beyond reason. She has ideals and morals that she can wax poetic about in her rough country accent, but she also has a decidedly oblivious air that she uses whenever confronted with an actual issue. Though this would lean her more toward maliciousness and hypocrisy than daftness, Mark knows that she doesn't realize this. So he knows it's just daftness (wants desperately to believe that).

As he limps home again he is wincing from the pain that never truly fades, knowing she will be willfully unconcerned. Will ask him if perhaps he should try that new lifting method that takes strain off the back, will ignore his shame darkened eyes and place whatever is for dinner in front of him with a flourish.

His predictions hold true. She makes small talk, eyes carefully avoiding his wincing every time he moves. But just as he reaches to clear their table, her hand jerks out and grabs his wrist in a painful grip.

"You should marry, Mark," she says. "I long to see you happy with someone. Find love, and all that." A gentle, loving smile.

Mark fights off a sneer. "No one's caught my eye, mother."

Brigid bites her lip (a family trait? It must be.) and surveys him. Her grip tightens. Another bruise, he thinks caustically. "Don't you want love? Happiness? Marriage?"

He wants to scream. She knows, she must know. It is impossible not to. Can his constant limp, the fear he exhibits around men, the nightmares be that mistakable? Can they? Bile burns the back of his throat.

"I…don't believe in love anymore."

Her face and her hand fall. Freed, he hastily clears the table and makes his exit. It is not long before he is curled tightly on his bed, shivering with memories that have a life of their own.

The truth is, Mark believes in love. He believes in it fiercely, clings to it with a fervor unmatched. He believes, above all else, in love. True Love, even. He's just not sure if it exists.

* * *

Mark's first impression of the Seeker is fierce brown eyes and the feel of absolute power. In that brief moment, all he wants to do is fall desperately into the older man's arms and cry. The feeling has no origin, no purpose. Mark is a stronger man than most will give him credit for, but in that second he feels helpless.

Years of hoping silently for his Seeker, and the very man he dreamed about is dropped in his lap. Mark wants to cry and fall and bury himself into the strong body and the protective embrace. He wants it with a passion unmatched. It is wrong, he knows. Because he is trash and worthless and dirty and wrong, and here is his Seeker but so unattainable. He fidgets, trying to control this strange urge.

Without meaning to Mark's eyes flicker to where a large, callused hand still rests on his sword pommel. Mark knows calluses, knows the feel of them as they touch places that they shouldn't and knows the way the sting as a blow glances across his face. That hand, so large and strong and callused, could do damage to Mark. His mind knows this as the almost dead child in his mind whispers how that hand could protect him just as easily.

The eyes flicker back up to meet a pair as brown as his own. He can feel reality rushing back, his moment of first impressions is fading. The anger replaces the shock as a growl rumbles in his chest. Yet even as the first words leave him, Mark knows he has fallen in love.

* * *

"You turn me in," Richard says. "Rough me up, turn me in. It's not that hard. It'll take a lot of acting, but it's a good plan, best we've got." He's pacing now, determination in his face and the set of his shoulders.

Mark fights to swallow; fights to do anything, really. It's all he can do in this moment not to start weeping helplessly. The Seeker is fierce and protective―he would protect anyone who had ever been harmed―even one who had betrayed him. Which makes it all the harder for Mark to keep his distance from Richard.

"I…I can try. I will try."

"Yes, for your mother." The older man is clearly quite pleased with Mark's complacency.

No, for you, Mark thinks softly. But he keeps that too himself. "I'll need to go get my cloak…and you might want to do…something."

Richard nods and begins smudging ashes on himself. It won't be very convincing, but Mark isn't going to punch the Seeker to make it look better.

He stands quickly and whimpers at the sudden pain that goes wailing up his spine. Richard notices and is on him within seconds, murmuring worriedly and supporting Mark's weight easily. Mark unwillingly feels his mind go blank.

Finally one of Richard's questions pierce the happy fog that passes for Mark's mind. "Should I call for a doctor?"

"No!" Mark yelps, panic make him jerk away. Gods, not the doctor. It's too terrifying a thought. Richard could never know…never know his shame, how dirty and worthless he really is.

"What's wrong, Mark?" Mark is quiet. A dark thought enters Richard's mind, Mark can see it in the rapidly darkening expression on the Seeker face. He is putting two and two together, how could he not? He's an intelligent man. "The Patrol…they've raped you. At least one of them. Recently."

Mark tries fiercely not to cry. He loses the battle. Tears stream down his face even as he bites his lip savagely in an attempt to stop the weakness.

But Richard's arms are wrapping around him gently, and promises of pain to his torturers are being whispered in his ear, and for the first time in forever Mark feels actually safe.

* * *

Richard leaves. Leaves with a woman of unparalleled beauty (how could Mark have ever even thought he had a chance?) and an old man who radiates power. Leaves a town that is heady and giddy with newfound freedom. Leaves for a destiny greater than Mark can even hope to understand (though he thinks the fact he knows this must say something for his intelligence).

Mark waits. Waits for a man who is never coming back (he knows this too, because when Richard succeeds, _which he will,_ there will be the lovely woman in white to care for him and why should he care about a boy that wasn't even his brother?). Waits in a town full of hypocrites with a mother who is still wary of him, haunted by memories he knows will never really fade. Waits in his ivory tower for his Seeker to come rescue him.

* * *

It's a beautiful day. Sun dapples through the forest to make wondrous patterns on the ground. Mark runs his hand over worn stone, the remnants of an ancient tower. Wistful, wanting, waiting, always praying for something that's never coming.

He closes his eyes. Listens to a bird singing shrilly. Breathes in the smell of damp forest and recent rain and sunshine.

"Hullo."

Mark starts and whips around.

Hallucination, his brain provides helpfully. Too much sun. But the hallucination is smiling and looking at him with some sort of awe. Stepping toward him, brown eyes still gazing at him. Richard's hands are warm and gentle on his arms, rubbing them tenderly as if to shoo away nightmares or the pins-and-needles of sleep.

"I went to town."

"I wasn't there."

"I know. They told me you'd be at the gypsy tower."

"I am."

"They call you Gypsy Mark now."

"I always have been. They just realized it."

Silence. Then:

"You waited?" he whispers softly. "For me?"

"Yes," Mark sobs. He feels like he is choking on air. "Yes."

"Gypsy boy," the Seeker says fondly. "Locked in your tower."

"You Seekers _are_ fond of gypsies in towers." It was supposed to be sarcastic―sardonic, even. Needless to say, it falls short of both expectations.

Richard bites his lower lip (are they sure they aren't related?) and glances away. "We are, aren't we?" Mark, apparently, is not the only one who is feeling a little dizzied by the sudden proximity. A gentle grin, hinting at the playful wickedness just below the surface. "Though you are not quite what the stories say."

Mark snorts at the idea of him being the most beautiful woman in the world (or even the most beautiful man). "No, I suppose I'm not. Perhaps I should help you find another gypsy in another tower, eh?"

There is jaw-jutting and body stiffening and hands that tighten around Mark's biceps. "I think I'm content…with the one I have."

Caution, Mark decides, are for people who have not just spent the last six years locked in a prison of their own making waiting for someone to come save them. For people who are too stupid to realize that having all the answers about flight does not mean you are any more likely to sprout wings than the next person when you jump off a cliff. Caution, he decides, is overrated.

And he proves it by lunging forward, tangling his hands into the thick sepia hair that is surprisingly soft (if quite dirty and just a bit sweaty) and pulls Richard's head at such an angle that…

Hot, chapped, needy lips devour his lips. Hands leave his arms to wrap around his back, tugging him flush against the broad chest Mark has dreamed of.

There are no promises, there are no answers. But that's alright, Mark believes in fairytales.


End file.
